


Poems for the Marshmallow Guy

by AXL_Reality



Category: A3! (Anime), A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29036259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AXL_Reality/pseuds/AXL_Reality
Summary: A certain part from his thoughts reminds Homare to pat on his pockets, in search of an item he knows that should be there.None.His pockets are completely empty save for a few trinkets and a bag of cheap marshmallows. He raises the bag to his eyes. Somewhere in his peripheral vision he imagines a silver haired man with golden irises, up to snatch the bag from him.He gasps, looking for that silhouette in the sea of people walking along the street.None. Not even a mere shadow is there.
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Mikage Hisoka, Chigasaki Itaru/Utsuki Chikage
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	Poems for the Marshmallow Guy

Some days words refuse to form into phases. Those who manage to form, break right before he weaves them into a prose - the tangible representation of this abominable destruction is on the countless sheets of paper with crossed out scripture on Arisugawa Homare's table. Even for a genius such as him, doing the thing he's so gifted at can be as hard as solving complex mathematical equations.

' _There is no beauty in poems without inspiration_ ' is what he stands for. They're pitch black carcasses of stars that died before being able to twinkle at its brightest. Out of frustration, the literary genius frantically escaped from MANKAI dorms to get an inspiration, rather, to pathetically search for a way to cure himself of the creative slump he's experiencing.

The streets of Veludo way is actually a perfect portal as its buzz always makes the poet brimming with inspiration. However that _always_ might be downgraded to _most of the time_.

As Homare listens to the voices of street performers trying to oust each other's voices, the cheers of the audience and footsteps of the other part of the crowd busy with their own matters, he feels like the inspiration he wants to grab isn't here. Silently, he walks away from the noise, letting his feet take him to basically anywhere. 

Prism twinkling on the corner of his vision, he stops by a jewelry shop. Encased behind thick glass, there is a single pocketwatch laying on display. It has intricate paisley design on its bronze cover. Crystals, imitation diamonds or cubic zirconia maybe, trace the pattern but there are a missing piece or two. Due to its size, perhaps it was lost by the previous owner?

A certain part from his thoughts reminds Homare to pat on his pockets, in search of an item he knows that should be there.

_None._

His pockets are completely empty save for a few trinkets and a bag of cheap marshmallows. He raises the bag to his eyes. Somewhere in his peripheral vision he imagines a silver haired man with golden irises, up to snatch the bag from him.

He gasps, looking for that silhouette in the sea of people walking along the street.

**_None. No_** _ **t even a mere shadow is there**_.

His eyes sting from staring into the empty space in front of him while his heart aches for that person and the missing item in his pocket.

"Homare-san!" Someone grabs on his sleeve. A young man with dark hair and bluish eyes. He dons a brown coat with its sleeves folded to show his forearms and a striped shirt underneath it. His smile is merry as usual but there is a tinge of concern in his eyes. "The practice is starting soon. What are you doing here?"

"Ah Tsumugi-kun, pardon my sudden disappearance but I have an upcoming deadline and I wish to look for inspiration when I happen to spot this wonderful watch!" Homare gestures towards the display. For some reason, Tsumugi gives him a wan smile. The poet wants to address it however their troupe's leader starts to tug on his sleeve again.

"We'll help you with your poems later but can we return to the practice hall first? The others are waiting."

"Understood."

Homare is fine walking on his own but Tsumugi hasn't released his arm until they arrive at the dorm. There, everyone from the Winter troupe mysteriously waits for them by the doorway. Tasuku greets them with a frown, grumpily reminding them not to wander far before the rehearsal time. Azuma smiles, telling Tasuku reassurances with his gentle voice. Guy just stands silently, corners of his lips slightly raised in amusement. Homare looks around, rather on the ground.

"Arisugawa, what are you looking for?" Tasuku asks, being the first person to notice things as usual. Actually that's what Homare also wonders at. _Who is he looking for?_

"Ah, these floorboards are stirring my imagination! Shall I recite a poem for you?" Everyone turns silent, giving way for him to speak. Homare opens his mouth yet no prose came out of it. Not even a word fell. The Poet sighs, too focused on his lack of inspiration and misses that unusual concern Azuma showed. "Perhaps these floorboards aren't as inspiring as I thought it would be. Maybe the ceiling can give me—"

"A-ah, Homare-san the practice is starting," Tsumugi cuts him right in the middle of his search for another inspiration. "Would you like to change clothes first?"

"Right... You can listen to my new wonderful poem later. Practice takes more priority." For some reason he doesn't wish to ask about, his troupemates sigh in relief as he walks towards his room. Until now, his troupemates refuse to appreciate the allure of his poems. He does not fret for soon, they will come to love them.

Feeling the switch on the wall and turning the lights on, Homare is greeted by the usual set up of his room — a brick wall installed with various items that usually stirs his inspiration, various books as a reference and his collection of tea. The sheets of paper are still there. _As if they'd fly away when Homare escaped, right?_

He opens his dresser and finds more bags of marshmallows inside as he pulls his rehearsal clothes out. At some unknown urge, he turns towards the empty side of the room where nothing but a sheetless bed resides.

Mankai company has 4 subtroupes — Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. Each sub-troupe is supposed to have six members who share a room with a troupmate. However, by some chance, the Spring and Winter troupes, which Homare currently belongs, only have five members. That's why this room only houses his things.

Yet why does he feel like monochromatic and mundane but modest pieces of furniture should be there?

_There it is again — the feeling of loss for a nonexistent entity. It's like an urge to speak yet no words fall from his lips, an image trying to resurface but remains blank, a peek of one's heart yet when one squints they see nothing but darkness._

His mind suddenly starts spinning while the ground below follows a nauseating swirl. All colors soon merge into solid white. Just like that person's snow coloured hair. His consciousness is fading as a voice resounds right before black replaces the white.

* * *

_"Arisu you're so noisy."_

_"Huh? You're giving this to me? I don't need it."_

_"I'm so sorry Arisu. We might not come back; don't wait for me. You don't need to cry anymore..."_

* * *

"Or so you say but why are you the one crying?" Homare mutters, eyes snapping open. The moment he does so, a sharp prick on his forehead makes him forget whom he offers those words for. His dream utterly turns into smoke as pain surged.

Hands travelling towards the pain's origin, he finds out that there is a bandage on it and it's not the only thing, rather, people with him at this moment. "Homare-san are you feeling alright? Gosh you had all of us worried!" Izumi screams, her pretty face ridiculed by anxiety. 

"Director-kun, what happened to me?"

"You took so long coming to the practice hall so we went to check up on you and found you passed out on your floor," Tsumugi answers his inquiry. Homare feels bad that he made Tsumugi worry twice today.

"I'm sorry..."

"If you are, then take care of yourself properly," Tasuku huffs. Despite acting angry towards the Poet's actions, everyone knows that he's concerned with Homare as much as everyone in the troupe does. "You can have the rest of the night off, Arisugawa."

"Thank you."

The theatre Junkie turns his head towards Homare sharply that he thought his gratitude offended him and expected a lashing from the olive-haired man. Instead, a flash of melancholia passes by his eyes for a second "Just... rest," he sighs as he fixes Homare's blanket then ushers everyone out of his room.

Now left on his own, Homare’s mind has nothing to do but wander towards a territory it hasn’t stepped its foot into. That dream, his intuition tells him that it is not entirely a product of unchanneled creativity, not with that person’s image vividly etched on his heart.

Homare shifts. Suddenly his body refuses the idea of resting on bed.

Certainly he cannot breathe life into new poems but he cannot settle either. He sits up, wincing as the pain shoots back, then threads carefully down the bunk bed. He needs a breath of fresh air, he’ll say if anyone asks.

At this time where almost all of the actors are inside the confines of their rooms, there is a single person sitting on the bench, right in the middle of the courtyard. Blonde hair and light skin turned paler under the moonlight, Itaru flinches and notices Homare as he approaches the other. "Quite a rare sight to see you outside, Itaru-kun." Staying in the same dorm for more than two years now, Itaru’s habits of locking himself up in his room during the weekends is no longer news for the Poet.

"Hello Homare-san,” Itaru smiles, lifting his phone in which its screen has already turned dark. The corners of his lips curled at the perfect angle, it is his perfect, office-mode grin. "The room feels big and empty for me nowadays, that's why. How about you?"

Homare sits beside him, leaving room for personal space as both of them are surprisingly into keeping physical distance from other people. He sighs at the big, round full moon in the middle of the season’s transition from Winter to Spring. "You’re also alone in your room. I could say that I am feeling the same."

Itaru looks up as well, the reflection of the moon almost taking over the diameter of his carnelian eyes and turns it into a lighter shade of pink. "Never knew how big this full moon tonight is. Never really looked at it that much before."

"You should go out often, Itaru-kun! You’re missing out on the bursts of inspiration nature will provide!" Homare chides yet Itaru being Itaru, he only makes himself busy with his phone instead of actually listening. He taps and slides his fingers on and across the screen at a speed Homare almost can no longer see. Despite losing the interest of the person he's conversing to, Homare continues, "If only the moon is enough to bring life into my works… But instead mirages of a person I don’t even know plague my mind."

All the tapping stops and the Poet feels an intense stare, boring holes into his skull. He makes a mistake of addressing its existence — carnelian orbs meet magenta.

"Homare-san," Itaru starts. "Don’t tell me, you are also feeling like _someone_ , rather _two people_ are missing from the company?"


End file.
